


Compromise

by IntuitivelyFortuitous



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Apologies, Denial(TM), Fluff, M/M, Post All Our Yesterdays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9435278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntuitivelyFortuitous/pseuds/IntuitivelyFortuitous
Summary: He had finally managed to say sorry—funny what being shoved into a wall could do. How his belated apology had turned intothishe wasn't sure, but if it meant that Spock's ever-so-rare smile would be directed at him for once, he'd take it.He'd take anything he could get.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hello, tis I, back with another multichapter fic. Don't worry, I have this one more or less written out. 
> 
> If you'd like to drop by tumblr for a chat, feel free! I'm Regulationblues.

_God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

He’d say it just like that, too. He’d say: I’m sorry, I’ve been awful. I should’ve known that you’d hate all those slurs, you are part human after all. No, that wouldn’t do either. Bringing out Spock’s humanity might be considered an insult. It made McCoy grit his teeth and give his chair another agonized spin. Spock was half human, yes, but he didn’t seem to want anything to do with that side of his heritage. Even though the thought was rising in his mind, it was unfair of him to say that Spock didn’t want anything to do with humans in general. He cared about them in his own way. McCoy just didn’t know if it was the human part that cared or if he was showing it in a way that all Vulcans did.

One of the many pens that littered his desk fell to the floor as his knee smacked into the corner. The pain did little to push away the feeling of guilty distaste. Finding Spock’s human side had always been an aspiration of his, but the thought had still occurred to him that what he saw daily was already a perfect combination of their two species and that it would just have to be accepted as such. The bits of his brain that urged him to quiet his teasing had been hastily overwritten by curiosity. He always wanted to see more. He wanted different expressions, a laugh here and there, a smile. The closest he had managed was a glare. He tried not to think about the implications of that too much for his own sanity. No, today was a day for apologies. He’d done enough introspection. 

But, dammit, curse him if he couldn’t find a good enough time to say it. It wasn’t a proposal, it wasn’t a request. He should have been able to come up with something by now. God knew Spock was eating himself up over losing control of his emotions and throwing him against a wall. Disregarding the frost bite, that part hadn’t been so bad. It was the thought that Spock, despite having found someone to share his elusive compassion, he had chosen the Enterprise over her. His mind still coughed up residual chills at the inability to do anything useful while one of his friends was being swept away before his eyes.

He just couldn’t win. Oh, there was a preferred endgame, and McCoy didn’t particularly like the way his thoughts kept turning to it, thanks.

His frostbite had been hastily taken care of by Christine and he was no longer confined to sickbay. He knew exactly where Spock was, he knew that what he had to say was very, very simple, but it was _so hard_ to go up there and say it. On the bridge. In front of everyone. Jim might enjoy seeing his efforts, but Leonard was certain that he didn’t want to see the resulting smirk.

His foot tapped against the floor. A cart wheeled by outside. Christine glared at him from the window to his office. She didn’t know what to make of his brooding state and wasn’t quite sure how to approach him about it, so she watched him like a hawk. He ignored her.

“Alright,” he said to the picture frame on his desk. He’d find Spock today. After shift, that would be fine. He’d ambush right before he and Jim escaped to go play chess.

-           -           -

Right, well. He probably should have expected things to go awry. They always did when something important was scheduled.

The ship stuttered to a halt and Jim ran full speed to the engineering deck, met by a slightly singed Scotty. Leonard dashed after him. Where there was smoke, there was usually an injured redshirt.

“What happened?” Jim asked, pushing his way through a cluster of ensigns.

“There happen to be a special anomaly on the scanner up there, sir?” Scotty asked. He looked deeply unhappy.

“As a matter of fact, there was,” Spock said, coming to stand next to Jim.

“Aye, well. All we know is that it shorted a relay coil.”

“Mr. Scott, I know well enough about mechanics to know that a relay coil does not do _that,”_ he said, eyes flickering up and down the walls for a hint of what had gone wrong.

“Fried the internal scanner too, I’m afraid. We’re not sure how far down the line the power surge originated, so we’re going to have to peel away some paneling.” Scotty looked like the very prospect was sacrilegious.

Jim nodded. “Well, we’re dead in the water until you get her going again. Need any of us to lend a hand?”

Spock looked at Jim with a raised eyebrow.

Jim just shrugged. “Can’t do much like this, I might as well be of help somewhere,” he explained.

“I, ah, I don’t see why not, sir,” Scotty said. He looked to Spock for approval.

“Very well, Captain. I will return to the bridge and continue the scans.”

“Yes, please do, thank you Mr. Spock.”

Finding no bleeding or aching people of any kind, McCoy saw his chance.

“Wait up, Spock, I’ve been meaning to catch you.”

Spock slowed his pace but did not stop. “I do not believe that I have been hard to find.”

“Alone,” he clarified, feeling his ears burn.

At this Spock _did_ stop, and McCoy nearly ran him over. He did a quick glance about for Jim and came up short. It was now or never.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, preamble entirely forgotten.

Spock showed no indication that he knew what issue McCoy was addressing. “I am unsure what you feel the need to clarify, Doctor, but I assure you, apologies are—”

“Quite unnecessary, yeah, yeah. Let me finish,” he said, grabbing the other man’s arm to trap him.

Spock wisely kept his mouth shut.

McCoy steeled himself. “I’m sorry that I’ve been an ass to you, Spock. I’ve been so focused on trying to pry a reaction out of you that I crossed a line. I’m a grown ass man, I should be able to control things like this,” he said, red creeping up his neck and down his forearms. “With anyone else I might’ve managed to ignore it, but—look. I’m making excuses. I’m sorry for all of those slurs over the years. I hope you know that I respect you as much as Jim—maybe even a bit more on some of his bad days—and that I never meant anything by it.”

Spock was silent for a minute and every second made his skin crawl. McCoy hastily let him go and wiped his palm on the side of his pants.

“Ignore what, Doctor?”

“What?”

“What was it that you find so perturbing? So difficult to ignore?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Not, perturbing Spock, it’s nothing you’ve done. I’m just not used to you. I wanted to get a response, especially when we first met, to feel things out. To get to know you better. And damn, a sarcastic remark has been my greatest victory. But I don’t know how to deal with how…impartial you are to me. I know, I know, Vulcans don’t show emotion. I suppose I just want to see what you’re feeling, and that’s pretty shitty of me, too.”

He was feeling all to vulnerable, hands clutched behind his back, face red from shame, but Spock didn’t seem to pick up on his insecurities.

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to be able to evoke emotional reactions. From myself.”

“Well, yeah. Clearly I didn’t go about that right.”

“No doctor, you did not.”

_Shit._ “I really am sorry, Spock. I’m not asking for your forgiveness and I know this doesn’t excuse what I did, but I had to tell you anyway.”

The eyebrow raised further. It would have been comedic had McCoy not wanted to crawl into a hole. “It does not, but perhaps we can come to a compromise.”

“A compromise?”

“I’m sure you are aware that Vulcans, contrary to popular belief, have the capability to both feel and express emotion.”

“I know that, yes.” He did. He wasn’t that unreasonable. It was just hard to tell with how repressed they tended to be.

Spock nodded approvingly. “In that case, perhaps it would be beneficial to attempt other types of emotional provocation, Dr. McCoy.”

He swallowed. Was he offering…? “You don’t have to do that, Spock. I was going to stop with the nicknames regardless. It might take a while, but…”

“Negative, doctor. I believe that ceasing all attempts to extricate a reaction from me would damage our rapport.”

“Well, I suppose it might, at that,” he conceded, trying to tell himself that he agreed because it was _logical,_ not because Spock just offered to slip him a smile once and again. Irony at its best.

“I am glad you agree. I am, however, required on the bridge,” Spock said, turning on his heel as if none of their conversation had just transpired.

“Yeah, of course, I’ll make sure Jim doesn’t trip over a hammer.” He took a step back. “See you later?”

“Indeed,” Spock called from farther down the hall.

He wasn’t sure what he could possibly do to get a response from the Vulcan but he was certainly going to try. He just wasn’t sure where to start. Spock hadn’t clarified what emotions he was comfortable with (if any) or who would be seeing them. Was it selfish of him to want whatever _this _was to be between them? Spock had grinned at Jim once, and McCoy couldn't blame him for that (even if he could tease hm). It had been a rather odd situation. But damn, did he want that smile focused on him. He’d seen pain, hysteria, horror and tears thanks to unwelcome alien interference and all of those had been expectedly horrible. Spock’s control had been torn away, leaving him raw, tied together with only threads of self-preservation. It had made them all sick. Jim had been jumpy for a week after. Mybe he'd get a chance to see the good things, too.__

Thinking of Jim nudged his mind back to where it was supposed to be. McCoy slipped through the door to engineering, his medical bag at the ready.  The hallway looked like a skinned animal: metal sheeting was piled up against the wall and a plethora of red wires were twisted like veins. Maybe Scotty was onto something when he personified his ship.  

“Hey, Bones,” Jim said, completely covered in grease.

“You look like you rolled around in a Tellurian tar pit,” he exclaimed. “How long was I gone, five minutes?”

“More like ten. You and Spock have a good talk?” he asked, rubbing his hands on a cloth that was equally black.

“No.”

Jim grinned. “Right. Well, there’s an ensign with a burn on his hand if you want something to do.”

He sighed. “There’s no point in hoping I won’t be of use one of these days, is there?”

“Nope,” the captain said, receding back under the curl of paneling.

“You look like a cave-dwelling arachnid,” McCoy said. His eyes zeroed into a young man in the corner who appeared to be soldering several wires with one hand.

“You really have been spending too much time with Spock,” Jim said, voice muffled.

Leonard went out of his way to kick him in the leg as he walked by.

“Not yet,” he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concern and relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it'd be soon. C:

“What is this?” Leonard asked, holding up the strip of green goo that had migrated into his coffee. It dripped from his spoon and plopped back in with a splash. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sulu blush and stick his nose further into his own breakfast. 

“I don’t mean to complain,” he continued, “but this is much worse than tribbles. Any chance of you beaming this shit onto a Klingon ship, Scotty?”

The engineer peered cautiously into his own cereal bowl. “I dinnae what this is, Doctor, but if you give me a bio-sign and I’d be happy to kick it to the nearest gas giant,” he said, prodding it with a spoon. A bit of algae floated to the top. 

McCoy eyed his prey from across the room. “So,” he said, sitting down next to Sulu, “I don’t suppose you would know where all this is coming from, would you? It looks a little bit like a plant, after all.”

He turned bright red. “Well…Doctor, I…”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. He was employing a technique he liked to attribute to his many years as a doctor, the one that tended to force Kirk to spill all of his secrets. 

“...Imayhavebroughtsomethingonboard.”

“Can you repeat that? A little slower, please?”

Sulu sighed. “The last planet that we went to? I saw him sitting there and he was on tip of a rock and he looked sick so I just…put him on the shuttlepod.”

“I’m assuming that by him,” he said, “you don’t mean a pile of slime.”

“No, sir, it’s definitely a solid.”

He nodded. “Hmmm. So there’s a good chance, then, that _this_ is it’s baby.”

“Probably.” Sulu winced as a bubble of green broke the surface of his soup. 

“And I don’t suppose you’d be of any help trying to get rid of this,” he said, pointedly flipping over a protein cube. 

The younger man sighed. “I will do what I can, sir.”

“Including providing us with the original sample?”

Sulu hesitated. 

“We won’t hurt it, kid, I promise,” he said, barely containing a smile. 

 

“Spock,” he said, trying not to run down the hallway, “Spock, I assume you’ve encountered Sulu’s little problem?”

“Lieutenant Sulu is the cause of this?” he asked, eyeing a petri dish with similar distaste to Leonard’s own.

“Sure looks like it,” he said, leaning down to catch his breath. “I figured you’d be in the labs, I thought maybe I could help out some.”

Spock looked pensive for a moment but nodded, stepping aside for Leonard to invade his space. 

“I have succeeded in isolating the rate of reproduction. It might be unnecessary to point out that it is alarmingly high,” he said, pointing to a microscope. 

McCoy peered down at it, appreciating the intricate cellular structure. “Well this hardly looks like a plant at all, Mr. Spock.”

“Indeed. A better classification would be fungi. The green color is not due to chlorophyll but a rather rare compound native to the planet of origin.”

“Well, it sure makes sense with what I’ve seen of the adult form.” He reached into the compartment of his tricorder case and pulled Sulu’s new pet from what could only have been an animal cage. Spock’s micro expressions, the ones that McCoy practically lived off of, flashed from impartial to intrigued at the speed of light. 

“Fascinating?” he asked as Spock opened his mouth.

“Yes, Doctor, I believe so.”

The intercom protested. 

“Bridge to Mr. Spock,” Jim’s voice said from the wall. 

“Spock here, Captain.”

“I must say, I don’t have the same reservations about catapulting this _stuff_ into space that I did with the tribbles. If you and Bones don’t get started on making it _leave_ , that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he said, sounding irritated. 

“You alright, Jim?” McCoy asked. 

“Peachy, Bones. But, you know, I don’t really enjoy the taste of protein bar.”

“Me neither, Jim. We’ll get it sorted out for you.”

“Good to hear it. Kirk out.”

The intercom beeped goodbye. 

“Well,” McCoy said, glancing at Spock, “that’s that.”

He already knew this, but he and Spock really made a good team. They had every step of reproduction caught in a freeze in ten minutes. They had tested numerous ways of halting it (to little avail) and an equal number of tests determining it’s toxicity. It appeared to be a very irritating spore of sorts. 

“Alright,” he said, quickly making a wet mount of a sample, “I’m gonna need the dye for this one,” he said, placing it on the edge of the grey space-light countertop. 

Spock handed it to him. 

“Doctor,” he said, stopping McCoy by the wrist as he procured a drop of deep blue, “It appears as though the specimen has migrated to yourself.”

He looked down. There was indeed a tendril of green clinging to his glove. He walked toward the sink and flicked it off. It proved resilient to his efforts. He gritted his teeth and peeled off the latex. “Spock would you mind getting me another glove? It seems to be… _Spock_.”

There must have been something about his voice, because Spock was at his side in an instant. 

The glove dangled from one hand, a hole down the length of his finger. The other hand was splayed out, displaying the ring of green that hand adhered itself to his skin. He demonstrated pulling on it, to which there was no response.

“It ate through my glove,” he said, twinges of _oh, dear_ reaching down to his spine. “And I can’t feel my hand.”

Spock grabbed him by his palm, his own dry gloves brushing against the wrinkles of skin there. Of course he couldn’t feel it. That was just his luck. 

“Doctor?” he asked, pressing his fingers into the joints in McCoy’s hand. 

“Nothing.”

“Give me your other hand,” Spock said. He did. “Squeeze.”

The test was one he would have suggested, and he felt a surge of approval that he tried to stomp out because that’s right, _telepathy_. Spock’s eyes flickered upward. He squeezed. 

“Your left hand is significantly weaker than your right,” he said. 

McCoy nodded. “Paralyzing agent, then?”

“It is too soon to tell,” he said. 

If he was affected, there was a high likelihood that others on the ship had been, and neither of them knew the effects it would have. What happened when a crewmember tried to take a shower and found it clinging to their skin? Would they go into cardiac arrest? 

“Spock,” he said, approaching the subject delicately as he was certain that it would not go over well, “Maybe you should get out of here.”

The man’s face hardened. 

“I mean, we don’t really know what this is, clearly it has adverse effects, and the entire crew is at risk. We should have someone doing damage control.”

“I agree,” Spock said. “I will advise Ensign Gregory that the substance is a paralytic and not to come into contact.”

Leonard let out a breath. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I will not leave you here, Doctor, nor will I allow you to sacrifice yourself as you so frequently attempt.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one aspiring toward martyrdom? That’s funny, Spock, because as I recall, you—“

Spock gripped his arm. “Leonard, I am staying here.”

“Oh,” McCoy said, dimly noting that he couldn’t feel his arm, either, and that his voice sounded much breathier than he intended it. 

“Is there a problem?” Spock asked, looking at the place where his hand made contact with the blue fabric of McCoy’s shirt. “Can you not feel this?”

“I can’t.”

“And you neglected to mention it?”

“Spock, how would I know if I can feel something or not when I can’t feel it? I didn’t notice until you touched me,” he snapped. “Maybe we should work on opposite sides of the room. You always make my heartrate rise, and who knows what’s causing this to spread.”

He neglected to mention that his heart rate rose for entirely different reasons than Spock likely assumed. 

Spock, curse his timing, didn’t let go. Instead, his eyes shone with what was undeniably concern. It made McCoy want to cup his cheek and tell him that it would be alright, promise him things that he didn’t know that he could give. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, “not now.” He cleared his throat. “We have work to do, Mr. Spock, and I intend to get it done before I am entirely incapacitated. Get me a 200 ml, if you will.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

When Spock returned with the graduated cylinder, he guided it into McCoy’s hand as if he wasn’t sure that he could keep hold of it. 

Spock seemed reluctant to leave him on the other side of the room, and when the intercom informed him that Sulu was waiting down the hall with some information, he looked at McCoy for what would have been considered a long while for a Vulcan. After some encouragement, he agreed to meet. 

“I will return shortly,” he said, leaving McCoy to his own devices. 

Really, he was fine. He wasn’t going to be stopped by a paralyzed arm. He took the parental fungi, he really could see how Sulu thought personified it, and began to analyze the cellular structure. He tried to ignore the little spot that looked like a face while doing so. It wasn’t too enthralling: there was a fluid cell wall, a cell membrane, and something else that was a little thinner, something that only an alien planet could have devised. He figured it had something to do with the algae-like state of the spores before they reached maturity. 

The lab doors opened back up with a hiss and Spock removed the tray from McCoy’s hand. 

“Woah, What’s going on?”

“So far, a quarter of the crew has made direct contact with the organism and you are the only one to have become affected. There is no longer a threat that requires you to continue your work. We are moving our efforts to sickbay. Ensign Davies and Lieutenant Sulu are to replace us in here,” Spock said, all but pulling him towards the door. 

Leonard tried tugging his hand from Spock’s, but his grip was too strong. “Wait,” he said, digging his feet into the floor, “grab a sample of the parent organism. And the slime.”

He got a glare, but they did pause to grab a sample or two. McCoy fit a little jar of lithium chloride in his pocket, and then he passed out. 

 

He woke up in the sickbay. In the bed farthest from his office, which he immediately dubbed as the result of some kind of mutiny. It was incredibly cold and he couldn’t move his head very well. Spock was sitting next to him, lab coat that he had been wearing during their project wrinkled and pushed up to his elbows. There were dark green circles under his eyes. M’Benga waved a tricorder over him. He smacked McCoy’s hand when he wiggled his fingers toward the hypospray rack.

He ignored Spock’s blank look. “So when am I going to be back on duty?” His voice sounded muffled and slurred. 

“You’ve got three more days at least until the paralysis wears off, and then you are staying in here until _I_ do the clearing,” M’Benga said. 

“God almighty, who put you in charge?” he asked, attempting to shift. He managed to move an arm before he gave up. 

“The captain,” he replied. “And as I understand it, you deserved it.” He smiled at his patient sympathetically as he removed his tray and equipment. 

Spock didn’t flinch, but McCoy got the feeling it was he who divulged that particular detail. 

“Doctor,” M’Benga said with a parting smile, “call out and I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he yelled back, smirking as much as his lips would allow. “It’s too bad for you, Spock. I’m sure you’d have found this much more enjoyable had my mouth been out of commission as well.”

“Your capacity for speech would have returned too quickly for me to have adjusted to the silence,” Spock said without much energy. McCoy wondered how long he had been awake, if he had been the one to find out why the fungi reacted as it had. He itched to reach out his hand and smooth the hair that had fallen astray. 

“What happened, Spock? After I passed out?” he asked. 

Spock seemed to shake himself a bit, his eyes snapping into focus as if he had come out of a trance. It was possible that he had been attempting some form of meditation as they sat there. He sat up straighter as if it would wake him further. 

“You truly were the only person aboard the ship who was affected, Doctor. It was a simple matter of finding what separated you from the rest of the human occupants and discerning from the subsequent list what attracted the fungi.”

“And?” McCoy said, honestly unsure what the factor must have been.

Spock tilted his head as if he was reliving the discovery. “Do you recall being contracting Sarfibean Influenza during your first year aboard the enterprise?”

“Of course,” he said. Boy, had that been a wild ride. He’d been sick for three weeks, feverish almost past the point of human survival and wracked by bouts of malaria-like pain. By some stroke of luck, he had been conscious for long enough to provide Jim with the trade for the cure. 

“The vaccination was form of live bacteria, as you recall. Denobulan in nature.”

Yes, he remembered that too, remembered waking up in a cold sweat to tear at his arms like there was something crawling underneath his skin. It had taken Christine three weeks to get him to see a psychologist. “I remember,” he said, too tired to anticipate what Spock would say. 

He nodded approvingly. “The substance that the bacteria continue to release, the very one that disrupted the influenza, is chemically similar to the substance that sustains it on its home planet.”

“It thought I was food,” he said. His mouth formed a lopsided grin. “Well, then.”

“Indeed,” came the predictable response. 

“How long,” he said, “did you stay up working on this?” 

Spock glanced at McCoy’s pinky finger that was attempting to regain movement of its own volition. He covered it to silence the tapping noise it made. McCoy felt the warmth of his hand, slightly less than that of a human, travel up his arm and into his chest. 

“You lost the ability to breathe on your own two days after your hand began to cease functioning,” Spock said. “Eight hours and forty-three minutes later, I was able to administer the reagent before paralysis overcame your nervous system in its entirety.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Spock?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He maneuvered his finger as much as he could in lieu of a hand squeeze. 

“Of course,” Spock said, looking as though he might collapse. He would deny it, of course, but McCoy knew how to read him. 

“Get some rest,” he whispered as Spock stood.

“Yes, Doctor,” he said. And then he smiled. It was tiny, minuscule, but the edges of his lips curved up and the crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes crinkled. It was exactly as beautiful as he had expected it to be. “The phrase, I believe, is ‘same to you.’”

Leonard stared at Spock’s back as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Cara, it's not the only smile you'll get :3
> 
> As usual I posted this as I was half asleep, so point out any errors, won't you guys?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the request of Spones-in-my-Bones, here you have Spock's POV . I'll get on with the storyline later :)

“Did you…”

“Yes,” M’Benga said, continuing to monitor Leonard’s vitals as he had been. “Commander, I understand that you’re worried, but Dr. McCoy insisted upon a very specific set of protocol if something were to happen. If you continue to question it, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Spock did not clench his teeth. He did not make fists. There was no indication that he had heard other than the silence that blanketed the room. Leonard was lying there, face pale, his breath coming in short spurts. The triangles on the panel above his head dipped dangerously. Spock loathed that he did not have the proper medical qualifications to assist in a time like this. 

There was a piece of slime still clumped to McCoy’s finger. M’Benga had insisted that they not remove it in case it enacted a defense mechanism. He could appreciate the logic, but that made it no easier to watch. 

Spock retreated. It was not easy to tear himself from the emotions that tested his control, but he managed to divest his mind of them just in time to see a thin cloth curtain closing around the biobed, isolating his friend from the rest of the ship. McCoy was never behind that curtain. He had been, one time or another, as had Jim, but never McCoy, not in this capacity. An odd feeling that he had not previously examined settled itself in the pit of his stomach. 

Leonard was dying, he realized, and M’Benga didn’t want him to see it out of some misplaced attempt at kindness. 

“Spock,” said nurse Chapel, looking at him with her brows furrowed. 

He wondered if she was there to tell him to leave, if she had the conviction to do so. She _was_ McCoy’s favorite. He had no doubt that she could do anything that was necessary when the time came, regardless of her past affection for him. 

“Yes, Nurse?”

“M’Benga has things quite well covered in there. Is there something I can get you from Doctor McCoy’s lab that will help you in your,” she made a vague motion in the direction of the station where Leonard kept his chemistry set, “attempts?”

“No, thank you. I will be returning to the labs. If his status changes, will you inform me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, pity in her eyes. It made him feel small. 

 

Work was quiet. Too quiet. The ensigns assisting him kept sending him scared little glances as if he was about to burst at any second. There was no threat of him losing control over his emotions, and even if there was, nothing would happen that would endanger them in any way. It was illogical and cut back on their efficiency.

Spock prepared another slide, this one a sample of the doctor’s blood. If he were another man, it might have provoked an emotional response. He was not. 

“Here it is, sir.”

“Thank you, Ensign.” Without removing his eyes from the microscope lens, he put his hand behind his back and felt the light panel of glass rest on the pad of his fingers. He slipped it into the slot and watched it autocorrect the focus. He didn’t see anything. There was no sign of the fungi in his blood. There was no sign of it in his CSF. In fact, it looked almost as if there was nothing at all wrong with his doctor. 

He sat down and began to assemble a series of tests. Doctor McCoy had fallen ill. He had been next to him, yet there had been no effect to his person. He was, however, a Vulcan, and his biological differences had proven to be immunity enough. But Dr. McCoy was the only human on board—the only individual, human or otherwise—that had been affected. And Spock had been right there, watching him. 

He moved the slide to the edge of the table. It was no different than the last. He continued to look at another one, human tissue frozen upon contact with the fungi. All he saw was two separately existing structures. It was clear enough the at the organism itself was in no way dangerous to the average human, so it must have been something about McCoy. Perhaps where he had been, what he had done, his body temperature at the time, something in the air next to him, maybe even his blood pressure, that set him apart from the rest of the crew. Spock would find a way to test everything. 

The next time he regained enough atmospheric awareness to look at anything besides a microscope was hours later. There were different lab assistants, rotations perhaps, that he had rarely worked with. The intercom called his name from across the room. It was a voice he did not recognize. His hands were steady as he pushed the button to receive the transmission. 

“Spock here,” he said. 

“Commander,” said the voice, “the captain is waiting for you in sickbay.”

“I am on my way.” He loathed to leave his tests.

“Yes sir.”

 

Jim was slumped over Leonard’s sickbed, his hands shaky and his eyes hard. Spock had seen him like this many times, each when he had bad news to deliver but felt as though he couldn’t allow himself to have an emotional response “for the good of the crew.” He was not Vulcan. He was hurting himself more by attempting the stoic façade. McCoy would agree, were he able. 

“Captain,” Spock said, approaching from behind. Jim didn’t move. 

“Spock,” he said. “You need to get to work on those samples we sent you.”

“I have been,” he said, annoyance simmering though his control like steam through a vent. He had been, but he had found nothing. 

“Not fast enough, it seems,” Jim said bitterly. Spock knew not to take it personally. Jim shook his head apologetically. “He can’t breathe on his own anymore.”

It took a lot to conceal the shards of electric panic that crawled up his spine. 

“How long?” he asked, wanting to rush to the side of the bed and see for himself. He didn’t. 

“Two hours.”

Spock turned toward the door. “Understood, captain.”

“Spock,” Jim called, sounding hesitant. “If…you being Vulcan, if you didn’t get to say goodbye, would you regret it?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to. Jim seemed to take it as an appropriate response anyway. 

“You’d better get over here and do it now, then, Spock. But make it fast.” He turned on his heel and left. 

Spock stood where Jim had been at the edge of McCoy’s still figure. He watched a machine pumping blood in place of his heart and another one sending electrical shocks to get his lungs to move. He stared into the other man’s face, unnerved by the lack of a jocular smile and bright blue eyes. 

When the Doctor awoke, he wanted to be there. He would let slip the relief that he was sure to feel and he’d relish the delight that would jump from Leonard’s mind to his even over a distance of several feet. Right now, he had managed to recreate a stillness in his own mind akin to meditation. He needed to be completely sure that what he was doing was logical if it was Leonard's life on the line. Perhaps someday he would reveal to McCoy the exact level of emotional turbulence he really created. But for now, a tiny expression would be all he could bring himself to reveal, though it would hardly do it justice. 

He left. 

It was becoming hard to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I love all of your feedback. Please keep pointing out errors and funny sentences!


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